


Thursday

by DidjaMissMe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Contracts, First Meetings, Gun-for-hire, How They Met, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Murder Husbands, One-Shot, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:56:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DidjaMissMe/pseuds/DidjaMissMe
Summary: Sebastian's a gun-for-hire lacking respect for the finger on the trigger.Moriarty's an enigma, a ghost story survivors shook to tell.Sebastian doesn't understand why the great and feared M would show up to a meeting like this.or,How they met and how it saved the Tiger's hide.





	

_This ignorant, bias, self-centered, compensating, spoon-fed, fat motherfucking hog is not worth the air he breathes,_ fumed Sebastian. He currently leaned against the wet brick of yet another nameless ally in an english city he couldn't give two shits about. _But he is valuing you at the next three months of rent._ Sebastian snarled at the new low level he has stumped too. After the "polite" "request" to leave the army, Sebastian found himself on a contractual basis only those with his... skill set could acquire.   

And it wasn't too shabby. He didn't have a pension from the army (His father's title could only get him as far as avoiding a dishonorable discharge) and was dumped out some railroad station with the pack on his back. The contracts were easy, almost-enjoyable work. He sniped in the army, and found himself staring back down the scope – this time seeing targets in the forms of officials to be assassinated, extra lovers to be rid of, or significant others who couldn't die quick enough for the inheritance to fall through. Some contracts lasted longer than others – one time he was shipped out for a week to act as a buff for some formal party or whatever – while some lasted a mere ten minutes before shots were fired and money was lined in to one of his bank accounts. 

But this... this _putrid sack of dicks_ was by far the worst contractor.  

Sebastian's worked with him twice before. Needless to say, Sebastian didn't have much respect for _"Mr. Connors, sir."_  

A loud, American-brand red car pulled up next to him in the alley. It stopped in front of him, and before Sebastian had even shut the back door, it was peeling out. Inside smelt of cheap cigars and failure, but Sebastian couldn't comment in fear of hypocrisy.  

* * *

 _Mr. Connors, sir_ had a meeting. 

And for some, blasted, idiotic reason, he needed Sebastian there.  

 _Money is money_ , Sebastian reminded himself as he stood - stock still – tall, proud, and menacing behind the short fat man in a tacky suit. They were in a hotel lobby (closed for the night), a single table with the chairs not stacked, the two "businessmen" sitting opposite. The entertainment for the evening ( _"Ricky"_ as _Mr. Connors, sir_ had called him) looked nervous, sweaty, and far too young to be involved in this shady business. If you could call the sad excuse of work by  _Mr. Connors, sir_ a business.  

"He – he said you had till Thursday, Mr. Connors, sir." Ricky sputtered nervously, eyeing the two guards opposite him. Sebastian made sure to make eye contact, and could laugh at how quickly Ricky averted his gaze back down to the table. 

"Thursday? As in the day after next?" _Mr. Connors, sir_ asked. 

"Ye-yes. Although at this time of night, it's technically tomorr-" A fist slammed down on the table, interrupting Ricky. 

"Tomorrow! All my dedication, my time, and the deadline is tomorrow! Who decided this?!" _Mr. Connors, sir_ spat as he spoke, and Sebastian cringed at the reputation this man put off. 

"M himself, sir." Ricky sounded quiet now, as if afraid of the very sentence. 

"Moriarty, huh?" The air seemed to still with the name, as if frozen with fear and shocked into submission. Sebastian didn't understand. The fellow paid-by-the-punch next to him stiffened as if awaiting reprimand for the name being uttered. Seb may have been new to this lifestyle, but he was a quick learner and could understand – M has secrets. M is a force not to be messed with.  

"He doesn't like his name to be said out loud, sir." Ricky was somehow quieter, but with more focus – like a worship. 

"And I don't like plans to be changed and deadlines moved! We all can't have what we want – He thinks just because he's some big guns with a mysterious name and reputation he can fuck me up! Well excuse me, _Ricky_ , but I'm running a _real business_ here and can't be bothered with your damn ghost stories and childish games! 

At _Mr. Connors, sir_ 's outburst, Sebastian took joy in the conclusion that the mouth-breathing scumbag wouldn't make it till the end of the month.  

Unfortunately, Thursday was less than 24 hours away. Fortunately, _Mr. Connors, sir_ offered to double Sebastian's payment. 

So once again, Sebastian found himself standing in a scratchy suit, with crappy shoes, and aching muscles - and they'd been standing here for _an hour_.  

 _Mr. Connors, sir_ had been smart enough to bring a chair, which was definitely out of place for the abandoned parking garage they had been assigned as a rendezvous. It was wet, and cold, and echoed with every scuffle, drawn breath, or sigh from the fat pig who had to bring a chair cause the poor thing couldn't stand for a blasted hour. 

It seemed as if an eternity passed in each minute, until the soft purr of an engine could be heard from the ground level down below. It took time for it to grow louder, Sebastian's heart gaining speed with the volume. By the time the car was more or less felt rather than heard, Sebastian was _ready_. He wasn't sure what for, but _by god, finally_ , something was happening. 

The car was sleek, black, and graceful, stopping a few meters away, the lack of it's growling engine deafening as it got cut.  

Sebastian knew this game.   

The door would open, revealing a large, nameless brute, meant to intimidate and strike fear. Another would exit the passenger door and turn around to open the door for the client as if he was facing royalty. They'd stand a few steps behind, on either side of the man of the hour, as if the guns-for-hire were money they were flashing. Moriarty was no different than another hoodlum on a Thursday night, except maybe taller – more grey hair. His blue eyes were piercing, and he looked like he wouldn't hesitate to give a kill-order if someone gave him a wrong look. 

Except – _oh._ This was new. 

The door opened from the inside, and a quick person fell out, stumbled around the backside of the car, and fell into place next to the drivers side door. He wore slacks and a button up – nothing compared to Moriarty's slick suit – and his tie was crooked. His glasses were constantly falling down his face, and he had ink smudges from where his hand, carrying a pen, would constantly go to replace the eyewear. It was hard to judge his height from the way he carried himself, small, almost scared. He reminded Sebastian of _Ricky_ : too young to be here and knowing it. His hair was disheveled to say the least, and as dark as his eyes -

He knows those eyes, that look. They were dark, they were an abyss. He's seen that look before, before he left service for queen and country, as he followed them down the sewer drain. The water _plipping_ off the garage sounded eerily similar to the echoes found underneath the streets of India, and he half-expected her growl to permeate through his skin and light his veins once again. The eyes held the same patient, cunning, rage he stared down in the form of the tiger that led to his informal discharge, and the scar across his abdomen – his only real souvenir – seemed to burn at the reminder. 

Suddenly, Sebastian was struck. If Moriarty was this great enigma, this ghost story survivors shook to tell, why _the fuck_ would they care about _Mr. Connors, sir_? Connors may think himself important enough to demand meetings and haggle at negotiations, but even Sebastian could tell he had no true power. Then why would Moriarty be willing to risk life and limb to see him face-to-face?  

His anonymity is his power. No one could point him out in a crowd, could track him down. Many say he's not actually one person, but a group – a society of Moriartys, if you will. But here he is, showing his face to some low-end criminal? Unless, of course, nobody was looking at _him_ to notice who it was.

"I hope you don't mind if we record this conversation?" Moriarty was the first to speak, gesturing to his short scribe, frantic with the pen in his hand. 

"Not at all." 

The Not-Ricky scribe looked up, briefly, and made unwavering eye contact with Sebastian. The abyss stilled, and was cold, unrelenting: and Sebastian knew. He gave a slight nod of respect to the _real_ Moriarty, and held back a shiver at the sparkle he got in return. 

 _Oh god._  

* * *

 

The meeting was quick, and seemed to be less negotiation, and more pleas for forgiveness from _Mr. Connors, sir_. The words shared were short, vague, and followed by the sound of a pen scratching against paper.  

That sound was _thrilling._  

Every scratch of "scribe" was a reminder – he was here, he was listening, and he knew. It was ominous, as Sebastian found a fixed point on the wall to stare at like a good puppy-guard, to hear nothing but the pen, have his senses filled with the knowledge that Moriarty _was_ here, and he _was_ real, and he _knew._  

Then door slams were echoing through the garage once more, the engine was starting, and Sebastian missed the silence of pen-on-paper. He missed the hot thrill of danger of knowing Moriarty's secret. He missed the enigma of Moriarty. 

"Ha! And to think he showed his face, he came personally, to a meeting with me. We're getting the upper hand boys, we're gaining on him, and he's _scared,"_ Mr. Connors boasted as Sebastian opened the door for him. Fuck, did he want to punch him in the face. The blatant disrespect, the ignorant pride – he knew nothing, and didn't even care about it.  

Maybe that's why, as they were driving down the street and Sebastian heard an out-of-place, quickening _tick_ , he didn't warn _Mr. Connors, sir_. He simply opened the door as they were driving, rolled out, and escaped seconds before the deafening _boom_.  

Even though he lost his payment in the fiery explosion, Sebastian somehow knew, and took comfort in the fact that the car explosion would be written off as a gas leak or engine failure. 

 _Moriarty._  

That name sounded pretty damn good. 

* * *

 

It's been a month since that pivotal Thursday. 

Sebastian never got paid for those meetings, which was really quite a shame considering the pile of bills he was leafing through. He holed up in his apartment that following week to avoid recognition, and since then he's sort of fallen off the grid – by his choice or not. The contracts stopped coming. It wasn't as if Sebastian was getting spammed with these jobs, but still – he would find a manila folder or a vague envelope in his mail every week or so. 

Now he was just left with bills, bills, and –

A small piece of paper slipped out of his mail pile, and Sebastian quickly set the bills down on the creaky card table to pick it up from the floor. 

 _You're welcome._  

 _Xx, M_  

So falling off the grid wasn't his choice then. Good to know. 

* * *

 

He was on his last remnants of change. A couple bills, everything cashed out from his bank account, two days left before he got kicked out of the small dingy apartment.  

He wasn't too worried, honestly. The stack of bills went untouched on the table, but Sebastian found a small white note for – what he assumed – every contract sent his way and intercepted. Somebody was stopping his flow of income, and Seb found he couldn't care. 

He knew it would end sooner or later. He would end sooner or later. Now it's just looking to be sooner, rather than later. He joined the army knowing his death would come by gunshot – quick, loud, out with a bang. When he got informally discharged, he knew the bullet would have to come by his own gun then. 

It was just a matter of time. 

So he shuffled through the loose change in his pocket, counting it to find out he had enough for a small coffee at the shop down the street. He shrugged, rolled his shoulders back, and slipped his trusty Sig into his waistline. There's been worse last meals – he's seen them. And honestly? He was kinda excited to relax with a small cup of black, enjoy the last few minutes of busy society, and let go. 

For once, it wasn't raining. The sun was bright (if a little could), and hung high in the sky. If Sebastian stretched his imagination he could remind himself of India, and seep deeper into his state of solace. Unfortunately, the sun was out- and so was more people. The streets were busy, the line in the coffee shop long. The chatter was occasionally drowned out by machinery, or the bell tingling on the door whenever it opened. Seb could almost smile. 

He got to the front of the line, the young girl behind the counter looked far too chipper to be working a minimum wage job. He flashed his Moran-Charm in a smile, ordering his small coffee and making her blush. Alright, there'd be a few things he'll miss. 

"Oh, no, don't worry about payment," She said as he started to pull out his change. "The man over there already paid for you." She gestured over to the back corner, to a table with one occupant and the only open chair in the store. 

It was _him._  

Sebastian felt the air thicken, time became irrelevant as he breathed in. He quickly dropped the rest of his change into the tip jar, took the coffee handed to him and made his way over to the chair, heart pounding. 

"Why?" He asked as he sat down, unabashed in being the one to talk first. 

Moriarty just leveled him a look. 

"What, is this just out of the goodness of your heart?" 

"Well, hello to you too, Tiger," Moriarty said, taking a sip from his own mug. 

Sebastian realizes he's never heard his voice before. This is the man who spoke his dominance through a pen, who's stories speak volumes, and Sebastian never took him to be Irish.  

( _To be honest, it was kinda hot)_  

"Why?" He asked again. 

"Why what?" 

"You know what." 

"Oh, I do know what. But apparently you don't. Enjoy your coffee Moran, I'll need you on your toes tonight." And like that, he got up and left. (And if Sebastian happened to watch him leave, eyes lingering a little too long – well no one has to know). 

Sebastian fell back to the table, smiling to himself. He picked up his coffee, noticing the napkin it had been on top off. 

It was small, white, adorned with a number and a  

 _Call me._  

 _Xx, M_   

And as he carefully folded the napkin and slipped it into his pocket, Sebastian knew he was fucked.  

And he couldn't wait. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank victoriansherlock and I-am-gaylocked for giving me my prompt.
> 
> Send me more at victorianwatson.tumblr.com


End file.
